


How to Get a Turian to Go Down

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Relationship Advice, Xenophilia, reach and flexibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8562748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: Shepard's having a hard time getting Garrus to take her seriously as anything other than a commander and a friend. Zaeed might be able to help with that.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soldiermom1973](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldiermom1973/gifts).



> Prompt--  
> Pairings: shenko (male or female Shep, doesn’t matter) shrios (femshep), shakarian, Shepard (male or female) friendship with Javik, James, Joker, EDI, Wrex, Grunt, Zaeed, Chakwas, Jacob  
> Warnings: Don’t care  
> Rating: don’t care  
> Plot: something fluffy. If you’ve got a prompt you’ve been meaning to fill, now’s the time. General Jane/John Shepard is ok  
> Do not want: no Tali, Liara, Miranda, Traynor, or Jack romances  
> ~~~~~~~~~~  
> What you get: Shakarian with bonus Zaeed friendship (because have you met me?)

Crew members formed an informal ring around the floor mats that had been thrown down on the landing deck. The Hammerhead loomed above them, suspended from the ceiling so it was out of the way (but unfortunately not out of sight or mind—gods, she missed the Mako). Garrus took another swipe with gloved talons and she ducked and whirled away, sweat spraying out in a beaded fan. She took a moment to catch her breath, moving further away than she would have normally simply to give herself a bit of space. They’d been sparring for a good thirty minutes, neither one willing to back down, neither one able to pin the other. And even with the enhancements that Cerberus had so thoughtfully provided in her reconstruction, she was beginning to tire. Garrus’ mandibles had started to hang slack, a sure sign that he was being worn down as well. But was it enough that she could take advantage? Damn the Turian.  
  
  
Damn the sexy, sexy Turian and his sexy distractions. His rumbling voice with the dulcet layer of subharmonics. The confident swagger that was frequently countered by his boyish awkwardness. The sparkling blue of his eyes. The pent-up raw power of his body. All bundled up in a gray package of hard plates and jutting angles; sharp pointy bits that didn’t put her off one bit.  
  
  
Not that he knew she thought these things, of course. She’d done nothing about these feelings. Feelings she knew now had started years ago when she’d first seen him standing on the presidium arguing so passionately with his boss. Feelings that had only grown, threatening to burst out of her chest at any moment. Feelings she had no idea about how to express, or if Garrus would even return. Or even want to know about. Damn. If she only knew more about Turian non-verbal cues—  
  
  
A fist came up out of her left peripheral, hitting her chin and side-swiping her cheek and sending her flying backwards. She cursed herself for becoming distracted—damn sexy Turian—as her back hit the matt, knocking the wind from her lungs. Garrus landed on top of her, pouncing as lightly as a cat, pinning her to the matt with a ferocious grin full of teeth. Had she not known him, she would have believed he’d go for the jugular with those teeth, rip her open and devour her whole.  
  
  
“I believe that one goes to me, Shepard. Again.”  
  
  
Because she had never once managed to take the Turian down. It had become an obsession in its own right, that someday she’d unlock the secret to Garrus’ weakness. And she suspected that Garrus would never consider her worthy as anything other than a friend until she could manage to get him flat on a mat.  
  
  
She locked her thoughts away and grinned back, good-natured and no-hard-feelings. “One day, Garrus.”  
  
  
He only laughed and stood, helping her stand with a strong grip. “Sure, Shepard. Keep dreaming.” He patted her shoulder and moved away, catching a towel thrown by Jacob. “Maybe one day you can actually get a hit in.”  
  
  
“Hey, I landed a couple good ones today!”  
  
  
“Is that what you call it? I thought you were trying to tickle me.” Garrus moved through the dispersing crew members toward the elevator. “Better luck next time,” he called over his shoulder.  
  
  
She rolled her eyes at his back and wiped the sweat from her face. The Turian was too smug for his own good.  
  
  
She watched Jacob wipe down the mats as she toweled off, slowly becoming aware that while the rest of the crew had moved away, Zaeed still leaned against a storage crate, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with narrowed eyes. Out of his armor, she could see the taut, wiry muscles of a man who’d spent most of his life fighting, and fighting hard. Had the Illusive Man not suggested Zaeed Massani for her team, she would never have considered him. But there was something to be said for having a man of his experience around.  
  
  
Still, his hard gaze was unnerving. There was more going on in that head than most people gave him credit for.  
  
  
“What the hell are you looking at, old man?”  
  
  
His eyebrow quirked at that. “The fuck did they teach you at N-school other than holding a tea cup with your pinky out?” His sigh was heavy with disappointment as he shook his head. “That Turian ain’t no different ‘n any other goddamn Turian, long as you know the right spot to hit ‘em. And you bloody well don’t, tell ya that much.”  
  
  
“And I suppose you do?” Even as she asked, she knew he probably did. But there was something about getting the old man riled up that gave her no small amount of glee.  
  
  
“Goddamn right I do.” He straightened from his lean on the crate, kicking off with his hip. “You want Vakarian to take you seriously in the ring,” he paused and leered, leaning in a little too close for her taste, “maybe even get ya in the sack, you’ll meet me down here. 0200 tonight. ‘Bout the only time that bastard’s guaranteed to be asleep.” He shrugged, ignoring her highly raised eyebrows. “I’ll show you a little trick. Help ya practice.”  
  
  
It was either a come-on or a proper invitation. She didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference. “Can’t you just tell me?”  
  
  
“Could do. But where’s the fun in that? Plus there’s a bit of a—” he waggled his fingers in the air “—finesse to it. Don’t worry that pretty little red head of yours. We’ll get ya set right. You and that Turian will be knockin’ boots before you can say ‘interspecies awkwardness’.”  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
She loved the ship during the night cycle. The quiet hum of the engine, the watchful calm of the skeleton crew, the feel of the ship being her own to prowl through. That night she made her way directly from the loft to the loading bay, not stopping as she usually would have at any of the other decks. She was a few minutes early, so she pulled down the mats from their storage nets and began to tape up her knuckles. The elevator door opened and she looked over to see Zaeed in sweats and a tshirt, carrying what looked like both of Garrus’ lower leg armor.  
  
  
“Did...did you just break into Garrus’ locker and take his armor?”  
  
  
Zaeed shrugged and she mentally added ‘hacker’ to the list of his abilities. “Need to practice on something that’s similar. What’s more similar than that bloody Turian’s own armor?” He bent down and strapped the armor to his calves, securing it with boxer’s tape. It was clunky, and he looked like an ass, which she was about to say but he interrupted her train of thought. “Weak spot is behind his knee and up just a titch,” He pointed with his finger. “Gotta get as close as you can. Puts ‘em right down on their goddamn ass. Bundle o’ nerves there. The trick is,” he straightened and shook his finger at her, “that spur is taboo. And before you ask, no, I’m not gonna goddamn tell you how I know that. Fuck knows what it’s for, but it’s all cartilage and erogenous zone from top to bottom, so you need precision. You’re gonna kick, aim with your toe. Only a couple angles you’ll be able to hit from, so yer gonna have to figure that out. Plus I’m not as tall, so yer gonna have to experiment a little once you get in the ring with ‘im.”  
  
  
Shepard moved to the center of the mats and crouched down, lowering her center of gravity. “Why are you doing this? You of all people.”  
  
  
“Why me ‘of all people’? You don’t think I know anything about regret? You don’t figure your shit out and get yer head on straight with that goddamn Turian, all of us are gonna fucking regret it.” He motioned her forward, an invitation to attack. “C’mon, Shepard. Show me what you got.”  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
She bided her time. Waiting for the right opportunity. Waiting for the right angle. And even then, when Garrus moved so she would be able to hit, she aimed high, making mental notes for the next time. She tapped her toes none-too-lightly on the back of his thigh and Garrus gave her a look, suspicious and leery. She forced her face blank, giving nothing away.  
  
  
“Come on, big guy,” she taunted. “What’re you waiting for?”  
  
  
“Just making sure you’ve got your breath,” he had wiped whatever that other look was off his face and grinned. “Don’t want to wear you down too early.”  
  
  
“Get him, Battlemaster!” Grunt’s voice could be heard over the other crew members who called encouragement from the sidelines.  
  
  
Shepard grinned and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “You heard them, Garrus. Let’s give them a good show.”  
  
  
“You’re the commander,” he purred.  
  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
  
She wore at him, skipping around him, dodging his fists and feet. She aimed for the tender hide between his plates and managed to land a few good blows. And so did he. Blood dripped from her nose and her jaw ached, but she didn’t stop. She caught him at disadvantage and landed another blow to the back of his leg, just above where she needed to hit. Next time, she knew exactly how high to kick. Not too hard. She didn’t want to maim him. Just enough to pop those nerves and--as Zaeed had said-- _make ‘im go down like a whore at Christmas._  
  
  
As if sensing her intention, he guarded himself more carefully. He wouldn’t allow her to flank him, always kept moving. It was just like the last time; both of them worn down, sweat rolling off Shepard, the crowd’s calls desperate for a win. But this time she didn’t allow herself to be distracted. She focused. She sucked in a gasp of air and lunged—faking a kick—and moved behind him. Garrus swivelled and in that moment her leg swung out. She felt the barest of taps on her ankle—she had hit the very tip of his spur and she mentally cringed—and then the top of her foot hit the back of his knee and he buckled instantly, coming down on one knee. She forced the attack, pushing him quickly down onto his stomach, grabbing a three-fingered hand and forcing it behind his back. She landed on his hips, becoming dead weight on top of him.  
  
  
“Yield,” she panted.  
  
  
“Okay. You yield.” He struggled against her weight, but wasn’t able to free himself from her grasp.  
  
  
“Very funny. Yield.” She leaned down, pressing her chest against his carapace. There was only the thin fabric of her tank top and sports bra between them. She could feel the distinct roughness of plates against her chest and she stifled a gasp, her imagination suddenly released from its jail cell. The Turian stilled under her as if listening for a soft sound in the distance. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.  
  
  
He turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of a beautiful, blue eye. His mandible flicked briefly and she knew then she had won. Even if it was just that one time and she was never able to beat him again. “I yield,” he said, softly. The tone of his voice pitched lower than usual. Under her chest she could feel the vibration as he spoke. There was a nuance she was missing, she was sure. But the look in his eye told her maybe the late nights practicing with Zaeed had been worth it.  
  
  
She stood up slowly, lending a hand to Garrus once he was up on his knees. He didn’t release her hand right away. Instead he looked down at their two joined hands. “Shepard.”  
  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
  
“Someone’s been teaching you secrets.”  
  
  
She raised her eyebrows and pretended at innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
  
Garrus dropped her hand and grinned. “Uh huh. So you just got lucky.”  
  
  
“Luck has nothing to do with it, big guy. I am a finely honed instrument of death.” She stepped back off the mat to make way for the next pair and grabbed a towel. “You should know that by now.” She spoke over her shoulder, toweling off the sweat that dampened her hair. Garrus was quiet for so long she turned to make sure he was still there.  
  
  
He was, in fact. His eyes intent on her; his gaze so piercing her heart picked up speed. His eyes traveled down her body and back up to her face with a predatory gleam that caused shivers to run down her spine. He stared openly at her, as if just seeing her for the first time. Damn if the old man may have been right.  
  
  
“Garrus?”  
  
  
He looked startled, blinking several times. “Yeah! I, uh...Hey, Shepard? What would you say, the next time we’re at the Citadel, or, well, anywhere really. I mean it would just be a drink, so any bar would do, right? Even AfterLife, although that’s not all that relaxing when I come to think about it. And that’s the whole point, right? Relax and uh...you know. So what do you say?”  
  
  
She laughed. “I’m not quite sure what I’m agreeing to, Garrus.” She’d never seen him so bashful before. It was incredibly endearing.  
  
  
“Oh! Ah. A uh...drink? You know. Just the two of us. As friends, of course! Unless you were otherwise inclined, just friends—” the words came out in a rush, nearly on top of each other. “—going out for a drink. Two friends, or, er, comrades in arms, or whatever we are out on the town. Maybe drink too much and tell stories and get to know each other even better. Get up to no good. What’s that thing humans say? ‘Raise a little hell’?”  
  
  
A soft laugh bubbled up from her belly as he rambled on. And then she happened a glance out of the corner of her eye at Zaeed leaning against a crate, scowling, arms crossed over his chest, and she remembered his words as they practiced: _“Turians don't like weakness. Stop letting him beat you when you spar. Want him to notice ya? Beat the ever lovin’ shit outta him and leave him dazed on the floor. Walk away. He'll come after you soon enough.”_  
  
  
_“Why should I take dating advice from you?” She’d asked, swinging a kick out that he’d dodged away from._  
  
  
_“Because I've lived longer than you an’ I have more to regret.” He’d hopped back and then forward again, surprisingly light on his feet. “Now quit playing about and fucking kick, Shepard.”_  
  
  
Garrus looked at her expectantly, hopeful anticipation in his eyes as he waited for her answer. She shrugged and nodded, pulled a face. “We’ll see.” And then she turned, tossing her towel over her shoulder as she headed for the elevator, pleased when Garrus had to jog to catch up.  
  
  
“What happened to Zaeed?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the man as he gathered up a pair of crutches. The merc’s knee was bound in a brace compliments of Dr. Chakwas.  
  
  
She slid her gaze sideways. “Got a little frisky with a krogan on the last mission,” she lied. She only hoped Garrus never noticed the dent in his armor that had gone along with that wounding kick.  
  
  
Come to think of it, she’d better find out how Zaeed had hacked into Garrus’ locker and fix that dent herself. She nodded once, brief and quick, at the old man. She got a wink in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
